Moments
by Ruine
Summary: A collection of short fiction involving Fayt Leingod, Luther Lansfield, Albel Nox and, eventually, the rest of the Star Ocean III cast. Alternate Universe, Canon, Post-Game. Full Details Inside.
1. Puppet

**T****itle**: **Moments** ( **1**/**10** )  
**C****hapter ****01**: **Puppet**  
**W****ritten ****b****y ****R****uine**  
**D****isclaimer**: Star Ocean - Till the End of Time © Square-Enix & Tri-Ace  
**C****haracter**(**s**): Luther Lansfield, Fayt Leingod, Albel Nox  
**P****airing**(**s**): None  
**W****arning**(**s**): Unbeta'ed  
**S****tatus**: Edited & Finished  
**R****ating**: General/Humor, GP  
**S****ummary**: A little instance in what is just another day for a trio of adventurers.  
**W****ord ****C****ount**: 547

[ **1** ]

**L**uther Lansfield stared, a frown creeping onto his chiseled features as the moments trickled by. He leaned over, pinched his chin and walked around in a half-circle; hoping that this might help to shed some light on this latest puzzle. He hummed and muttered under his breath at the possibilities. Finally, at a loss, he spun about to confront his grinning companion. "What is it?"

Fayt Leingod shook his head, lips twitching in amusement. "It's a puppet." The youth explained simply. Luther peered at the caricature craved from wood, loosely connected by metal rings at the joints, hung on one of the many stalls in Peterny's town square. Regarding the oddity, he realized that it did indeed very slightly resemble a man. He crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed and, secretly, miffed he hadn't figured it out. "It looks silly. It seems to be more a collection of sticks poorly tied together. It could fly apart in any moment."

"Oh?"

The blond's frown vanished; swept away by a small smirk. "Quite." he turned away without a backward glance, leaving the disappointed and insulted merchant in his wake. "I prefer my puppets to be more lifelike."

Fayt's emerald eyes narrowed. He didn't miss the double meaning lurking underneath the casual remark. Let it never be said that Fayt Leingod was one to run from a challenge. Slyly, he pointed out, "Those are really expensive and hard to come by; you won't find any of them here. Not to mention, you never know . . . when the puppet may be the one controlling the puppeteer."

Luther shrugged carelessly. "Who is to say which is the master and which is the slave? If the roles are so easily reversed then the puppeteer can easily be giving the puppet the illusion of free will."

"Perhaps." Fayt conceded. "For all you know, there isn't a difference at all. The master may have made the puppet but isn't the idea of the puppet the reason that willed the master to make it in the first place? Who can say which side rules in the end?"

"Quite."

From behind the pair, Albel Nox twitched violently and snapped. "Will the both of you cease this inane prattle? Must you debate and convolute even the simple task of _shopping_ for supplies? Gods, now I know why I don't come along!"

With a huff, he stalked off, heading straight for the nearby gates. The townsfolk hastily melted out of Albel's unwavering path.

Luther and Fayt turned to watch the fuming swordmaster march out of the city with mild surprise.

"What was that about?" Fayt asked, puzzled.

"That time of the month?" Luther offered, straightening his robes absently. "Well, we best follow him. Even I don't know what he's bound to do when he's in this sort of a mood."

"Right, we also have to finish getting what we need before the stores close, too," Fayt agreed, quickly trailing after the swiftly dwindling figure. "I wonder why Albel does this every time we take him with us."

Luther smirked. "Perhaps, he just can't appreciate a good conversation when he hears one."

"True, but we'll get around to changing that pretty soon, I hope."

"Too bad we can't just move his strings."

"Life isn't that easy."

"Pity."

**T****he ****E****nd**.


	2. Privileges

**T****itle**: **Moments** ( **2**/**10** )  
**C****hapter ****02**: **Privileges**  
**W****ritten ****b****y ****R****uine**  
**D****isclaimer**: Star Ocean - Till the End of Time © Square-Enix & Tri-Ace  
**C****haracter**(**s**): Luther Lansfield, Fayt Leingod  
**P****airing**(**s**): Luther Lansfield x Fayt Leingod  
**W****arning**(**s**): Unbeta'ed, Shounen-ai, Adult Situations  
**S****tatus**: Edited & Finished  
**R****ating**: Humor/Romance, PG-15  
**S****ummary**: Luther settles down to get some work done and finds something else entirely waiting for him.  
**W****ord ****C****ount**: 916

[ **1** ]

**T**he night air was heavy with the scents of cologne, candlesmoke and rose incense; filling every breath he drew. Who knew breathing alone could bring such pleasure?

Outside, the crash of waves against the reef and the distant shore could clearly be heard; echoing in his bones.

The faint luminescence of the candlefire revealed a wide, vaunted chamber, drowning the edges of the suite in teasing shadows and rippling darkness.

The silk draped over him was warm, whispering as the duvet caressed his skin with his slightest shift.

Exciting.

He breathed slowly, deeply; in uncertainty, in anticipation.

But, all he could do was wait.

Await his tormentor . . . his lover . . .

His master.

Time slowed, trickling forward like coalescing drops from a poorly shut faucet. He squirmed, impatient. Master was such a tease.

He shot a glance towards the old grandfather clock; admiring the darkly polished wooden frame that gleamed in the faint light and watched the slender golden rods inching around the ivory disc. Ponderously, these hands marked the passage onto the hour of midnight. Master should be here by now.

He strained to hear any sound, so he would know when his master arrived. In return, he consoled himself with the promise of what was to come. Master was a tease; but when he finally stopped playing . . .

He shivered, the mere memory of the sensations alone nearly enough to sate him . . .

Nearly.

The surf rumbled like a prowling beast; a steady gust of chill wind, laced with salt and brine, rushed into the chamber from the open double doors that led out onto the massive balcony. This playful gale sent the gauzy curtains rippling; the roiling folds of shimmering damask mesmerizing him briefly. The room darkened slightly as the breeze tossed the candleflame about; empowering the shadows that cavorted into new more cheerful, more frenzied caper.

The clock struck twelve, the chime to mark the hour loud and crystalline in the heavy stillness. So sudden was the noise, he started upright and stared about him in alarm, heart racing.

Where was Master?

He sighed, sinking back into the folds of the large bed.

He never liked this part of their games. But Master did. And he wanted Master pleased. Because the more pleased Master was, the more pleased he would be in the end. Master did reward well after all.

He murmured, a soft whine of thwarted pleasure. Rolling over, he tangled himself in the warm, smooth covers; grasped and hugged one of many thick pillows that were scattered on the bed to his bared chest, burying his face in the sweet-smelling bag of sheathed feathers.

Master was being unfair again; making him wait this long . . . the clock continued to toll.

Idly, he began to count.

. . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . ele—

A hand stole over his hair and slid down along his back; the familiar warm touch setting his nerves afire. This hand traveled steadily, coming to his rear and rested briefly, pressing lightly on the cheek of his buttocks before gliding back up to stroke the nape of his neck. He gasped in delighted surprise, twisting to look towards the source but a second hand join the first and pressed him back into the bed, biding he remained where he was. He obeyed without qualm.

"Did you wait long, Pet?" The soft chuckle mingled with the last chime. He shuddered.

"Yes . . . Master," he murmured, arching towards the deft hands; his buttocks rising up in pleasure at the stroking.

"Poor, poor Pet."

He mewled, wriggling like a kitten; eager, begging for the long denied affection. Another chuckle came from behind him and he felt his master sink into the bed, settling his head on his lap.

Leaning towards his master, he rubbed his face against a warm thigh, breathed in the familiar musk; his lips skittered over the firm flesh. He received an approving laugh, a faint hitch in the mirth enough of a clue for him to know he had succeeded in his aim. Master was very pleased.

"Let me make it up to you . . . You would like that . . . na, Luther?"

"Oh yes, Master!" he breathed, suckling a finger that wandered too close to his mouth. "_Please_ . . ."

[ **2** ]

Luther Lansfield flew out of his chair, leaping away from the terminal with a strangled gasp. His arms wound about himself, in comfort, in memory, in frantic effort to regain control of his shredded composure. Body still tingling, chest heaving and mind reeling; he stared in shock at the silent console. His Workspace looked deceivingly innocent and wholly unrepentant.

That had not been what he expected to find when he began checking system files. Not at all.

However, he knew the source of this mischief. All. Too. Well.

The shock faded; quickly replaced by dismay and epiphany then, finally, indignation.

"FAYT LEINGOD! This is the last time I am _ever_ granting you Administrator Privileges in my System!"

[ **3** ]

Somewhere in Gemity, at one of the many cafes that littered the theme park, Fayt Leingod sat in front of a small round table laden with a steaming, untouched glass of cappuccino and a triple decker ham-and-cheese sandwich. Grinning, he idly played with a small access card.

**T****he ****E****nd**.


	3. Laundry

**T****itle**: **Moments** ( **3**/**10** )  
**C****hapter ****03**: **Laundry**  
**W****ritten ****b****y ****R****uine**  
**D****isclaimer**: Star Ocean - Till the End of Time © Square-Enix & Tri-Ace  
**C****haracter**(**s**): Albel Nox, Luther Lansfield, Fayt Leingod  
**P****airing**(**s**): Implied Luther x Fayt, implied Albel x Fayt  
**W****arning**(**s**): Unbeta'ed  
**S****tatus**: Edited & Finished  
**R****ating**: Humor, PG-13  
**S****ummary**: Fayt returns from a trip to the grocer's and discovers . . .  
**W****ord ****C****ount**: 573

[ **1** ]

**H**umming cheerfully, Fayt Leingod slipped his keycard into the familiar slit-shaped hole of the front door leading into the penthouse he and his two companions rented. Pausing, he listened until he heard the electronic ping of the lock releasing before pulling out the small rectangle of metal. Smiling, he pocketed the card and patiently waited for the door to slide aside. When it did, he sauntered through—and stepped right into the middle of a disaster zone.

The youth froze, his jaw dropping in shock and, thanks only to his lightning reflexes, kept the two paper bags of groceries he was carrying from joining the mess on the floor as his arms went slack. Recovering quickly, he shouted, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"

In the center of the devastated living room stood Albel Nox and Luther Lansfield; the Glyphian drabbed in a pair of tight black leggings while the Creator sported only a half-buttoned polo and (to Fayt's mixed relief and disappointment) white briefs.

The posh apartment had definitely seen much better days; the small tables bordering the couch and other assorted furniture were little more than piles of shattered wood, and the lamps and vases that once rested on them merely pieces of dyed porcelain. With a twinge in his chest, Fayt saw that the couch—his favorite part of the living room—had been reduced to nothing more than a mound of shredded upholstery and bits of cedar.

The two combatants blinked and whirled to face him, their respective scowling visages faltering as a familiar wave of power erupted from the lithe figure by the doorway.

"Let's try this again," Fayt said sweetly. "What. Is. Going. On. Here?"

The pair fidgeted under the steely gaze of the youth but this vanished instantly as they locked eyes again. Luther's glacial glare returned; easily matched by Albel's fiery glower. The two men leveled accusing fingers at each other, raising their voices to be heard.

"—These are _my_ leggings!—"

"—He's wearing _my_ hose—"

"—Leggings! They are stockings, not some garden tool, you barbarian!—"

"—What the hell kind of word is that to call _my_ clothes, Worm?—"

"STOP!" Fayt yelled into the din, somehow drowning out both of them. "You two wrecked the entire apartment just because neither of you could tell whose piece of clothing that was?"

Silence settled over the trio and the pair looked around them in dismay and belated mortification. This quickly turned into guilt and they shoved their drawn weapons behind their backs sheepishly. A strip of fabric, the same shade and textile of the erstwhile sofa, hung from Luther's spear and fluttered forlornly in a breeze that had slipped in from the still open door. Albel's blade was equally stained, adorned with the sliced petals from a bouquet of roses Fayt had just placed on the dining table that very morning; clinging to the gleaming edge because of the water from the shattered vase.

". . ."

". . ."

Fayt's left eyebrow twitched once; the two men tensed, bracing themselves for the inevitable and much deserved lecture. Seconds trickled by until, finally, Fayt released a long suffering sigh and pulled his killing aura back into himself. Wearily, he juggled the two paper bags in his arms so he could rub his throbbing temples. "I think I am going to have to start labeling the laundry from now on."

**T****he ****E****nd**.


	4. Trust

**T****itle**: **Moments** ( **4**/**10** )  
**C****hapter ****04**: **Trust**  
**W****ritten ****b****y ****R****uine**  
**D****isclaimer**: Star Ocean - Till the End of Time © Square-Enix & Tri-Ace  
**C****haracters**: Fayt Leingod, Albel Nox  
**P****airing**(**s**): None  
**W****arnings**: Unbeta'ed  
**S****tatus**: Edited & Finished  
**R****ating**: General, GP  
**S****ummary**: How Albel Nox would define the word...  
**W****ord ****C****ount**: 178

[ **1** ]

"**H**ave you ever wondered why I don't look at you in the midst of battle?"

"I did notice that you used to stare at me all the time during fights. If you weren't so good, I would have asked you what the problem was since I was worried you'd get yourself hurt but you've stopped so I haven't really given it much thought since. I just assumed it's a quirk of yours."

"I never allow my back to be exposed in battle, never to my enemies and not even to my allies; I don't believe they are worthy to see it. They can't even see to their own safety; let alone mine."

"Yet, you've turned your back on me several times and, just now, in this fight you and I were back to back . . . "

Albel Nox didn't answer; he merely flicked the Crimson Scourge clean of the remaining blood and gore and walked away.

Trailing off, Fayt Leingod stared after him in surprise before breaking into a small smile and following without another word.

**T****he ****E****nd**.


End file.
